Dine and Die on the Danube Express (17 page)

Another woman with fair hair braided in traditional Austrian fashion was pressing aspic into elaborate shapes, while a small Latin-featured man with dark circles under his eyes and burns on his hands was tasting the contents of a large, steaming pan.

The train’s air-conditioning system had to work overtime here, I guessed, and it was doing a fine job, keeping the working temperature at a level much lower than most kitchens I knew. It was doing it despite all the ovens, infrared heaters, and the high-induction surface burners.

“I had thought you might have to serve fixed meals because of lack of space,” I told Heinz Hofstatter. “I am amazed that you can offer a menu with such a wide choice of dishes as you do.”

“We don’t do the impossible,” Hofstatter said jovially, “but we come close.”

A door opened at the far end of the coach, and a young fair-haired man came in with a large basket on his shoulder. I inhaled. “That must be marvelous bread,” I said.

“Olive bread, pepper bread, mushroom bread, sun-dried-tomato bread—we even have anchovy bread,” Chef Hofstatter said. “We bake and serve them all. Then we have focaccias, garlic twists, brioches, and Sicilian breadsticks—Bertrand, come here a moment!”

The young man approached. He had a smile on his face that I was glad to see—work in a kitchen should be satisfying and enjoyable. “Bertrand is one of our bakers,” Hofstatter said. “He is from Alsace—Bertrand, give our honored guest a taste of one of your offerings for today. What do you recommend?”

Bertrand looked dubious. “They are all good—”

Hofstatter laughed. “That I am sure of. For a taste though—what do you suggest?”

After a moment’s thought, Bertrand reached into the basket and unwrapped the top of a stack of small rolls. Each was the shape and size of a large egg.

“Please take one,” Bertrand invited, and I did so. It was deliriously browned and hot from the oven. I bit into it and chewed. Crispy on the outside, it was soft and delicious on the inside. “Magnificent!” I said.

“Tell the
Ehrenmann
,” Hofstatter said, using the nattering but seldom-used German name for a gentleman, “about it.”

“In Alsace, we have a large number still of Benedictine monasteries,” Bertrand said. “Alsace also has the finest charcuteries in all of France—”

“Bertrand is prejudiced”—Hofstatter smiled—”but in that statement, he is correct.”

Bertrand went on, “Well, there are none better in Europe. Naturally, we make the most use of these, and a popular bread has become this one.” Bertrand paused, watching me eat the rest of the roll, daring me to guess its ingredients.

Hofstatter watched me, too, still jovial but not above putting me on the spot. “I’m not familiar with the taste—which is superb,” I said. “You gave me a clue by referring to charcuteries, so there is obviously a pork product included in the baking. The pork, the bacon, the sausages from your Alsace charcuteries are the finest.”

Both smiled, waiting. I went on, no stopping and no turning back now. “The ingredient that gives it such an unusual flavor might be chopped sausage, but it is richer than that, firmer and fuller. I think that it is what is called ‘blood sausage’ in England, ‘blood pudding’ in the USA, and known as ‘
boudin noir
’ in France.

“Traditionally, it consists of pigs’ blood and suet—suet is not seen much anymore as it is considered too fatty. It comes from the fatty tissues around the liver of cattle and sheep. Consuming blood is not well accepted today either—”

“Not even in Transylvania.” Hofstatter and Bertrand chuckled, and I acknowledged that riposte with a grin.

“—but it is still used in some parts of Alsace, especially in the Strasbourg region,” I continued. “Finally, I think ‘
boudin noir
’ is
‘Blutwurst’
in German, is it not?”

Hofstatter burst into raucous laughter. Bertrand looked from me to him, then set down the basket with a wide grin.

“Yes,
Meinherr, Blutwurst
is the correct word,” he admitted.

“You are a chef?” Hofstatter asked, still amused.

“No, not anymore,” I said, “but I used to be.”

“You can identify the ingredients in all foods?” asked Hofstatter.

“No, not all. Some, though.”

“You know
Steinmetzbrot
?” Hofstatter asked. He pointed to a dark loaf in the basket. “Rye or wheat can be used. It is a little spicy, and it has to be baked long and very slowly in order to caramelize the starches. It has a very unusual flavor.”

He indicated another loaf, smaller in size, and Bertrand picked it up with a napkin, handling it as tenderly as a kitten. It emitted an aroma that was discernible above the other breads. “
Schluterbrot
,” Hofstatter said. “It is made with rye and oats. Then we have linseed bread and—” He broke off with a laugh. “You must excuse me. Bertrand and I get enthusiastic about our breads.”

“It’s good to see enthusiasm,” I told him, “about any food.”

Bertrand picked up his basket and went on his way, giving me a cheery wave. Hofstatter said, “Shall we continue the tour of our tiny establishment?”

“Certainly,” I agreed.

“Fraulein Malescu wanted to see everything—I think you should see everything also.”

My pulse quickened. Aside from my professional interest in seeing the kitchens, that was why I had wanted to take this tour.

I particularly wanted to know if Magda Malescu had been there.

T
HROUGH THE NEXT COACH
, we went past the bakery, where the ovens sat quietly but hard at work as the dials on the panels indicated. Dough- and pasta-making machines spun and turned softly, and next to them was a battery of shining machines ejecting various shapes of pasta.

I said to Herr Hofstatter, “No doubt you would have preferred to have the shapes made manually,” and he nodded. “
Ja,
but owing to space limitations, it is not possible. These machines can provide every shape at the twist of a knob.”

In the storage rooms, we stopped. Rows of boxes, crates, jars, and bottles filled the shelves, and next to them were the freezers, some of them glass-fronted. I could see ducks, quail, pheasants, sides of beef, joints of veal, and saddles of venison. A separate unit contained fish and shellfish.

“I am amazed,” I told him. “You have an incredible array of food. You must be able to produce almost any dish that a normal restaurant can offer.”

Herr Hofstatter patted his stomach with both hands in a self-satisfied gesture. “I believe we can.” He led the way down the corridor. This section of the train had no windows, and the absence of a passing view emphasized the extraordinarily sensitive leveling mechanism of the Danube Express. There was none of the swaying and rocking usually associated with a moving train. It was almost as stable as if it was not moving at all.

At this end of the coach were the spices and the herbs, the flavorings and the condiments, some in temperature-controlled cabinets. I stopped and looked at some labels. Once again, the range of products was remarkably comprehensive.

I examined several. I said casually, “I am surprised to hear that Magda Malescu showed an interest in your very efficient operation. She enjoys food, I know; I just had lunch with her. But I didn’t realize that she was concerned with anything beyond eating it.”

“Ah, but she is,” Herr Hofstatter assured me. “She asked me many questions.”

“About what?” I asked, still examining labels.

“She asked about bread, she wanted to know all the ingredients, and she asked about baking times, too. Then she asked about herbs—she wanted to know if we used fresh ones, and I told her that we did. She asked how often we replaced them, and I told her that we carry sufficient stock only for three weeks, so they are always fresh.”

“Nice to know that your passengers are curious about such matters,” I said. “Did she ask anything else?”

Herr Hofstatter didn’t express surprise at my continued inquisition, but to allay any possible suspicion, I said lightly, “She sounds as if she knows more about food than a lot of famous actresses. Most of them would say they had no time for such things.”

“That is so,” Hofstatter said. “She asked too about our fruit and nuts. She said she thought it would be difficult to have fresh ones on board at all times.”

I nodded. This was what I had been hoping for.

Hofstatter continued. “I told her that we replenish supplies every trip. Of course, we do not make trips all the time. This is a special train.”

“She didn’t eat any fruit or nuts during the lunch we had together,” I said. “It sounds as if she must be particularly fond of both.”

“She did not talk about them any further,” said Hofstatter. A kitchen helper came along at that moment and sought Herr Hofstatter’s help in locating the olives. When that quest was satisfied, we walked back to the kitchens.

I thanked the head chef for the tour of his domain and congratulated him on an extraordinarily competent operation under very difficult circumstances and restrictive space. I strolled back through the train, thinking over what I had just learned.

When I walked back through the train after dressing for dinner, the view out of the left-side windows was of Slovakia and the view out of the windows to the right was of Hungary.

The Alfold, the great Hungarian plain, offers a contrast to the hills and mountains visible during the earlier part of the journey. There can be great fascination in flat country, though, even if a river is not the best vantage point. Still, the cruise boats suffer from that disadvantage more than a train, and the Danube Express followed the track that frequently climbed up to the edge of the Danube Valley.

The Alfold is nearly four hundred feet above sea level and is the most extensive plain in Europe. It did not require a great stretch of the imagination to picture the massed hordes of the Mongols sweeping across the Alfold—the Mongols, those wild warriors who lived, fought, slept, and ate on their horses. Their vast numbers would stretch to the horizon and strike terror into the hearts of all who saw them.

They attacked, massacring men, women, children, and beasts with equal savagery. Their faces covered with long whiskers, their dress of rough animal skins, the crooked sabers and their fierce yells as they butchered entire populations earned them the deserved name of “Barbarians.” Now, with a gorgeous crimson sunset behind us, it was all too easy to see why contemporary historians said, “The land ran red with blood.”

They took no satisfaction in conquest and occupation. They were not farmers or traders or empire-builders—they lived only for war. Battle was their only satisfaction. Many writers have spoken of the facility with which they poured across the plains, unimpeded by mountains and unhampered by forests or difficult terrain. The Alfold was a feature of geography that facilitated the satisfaction of their ambitions.

Groves of birch trees and pines were dotted here and there, and orchards could be seen, a ghostly blue in the evening light. In places, the banks of the Danube were willow-grown, while, at the limit of vision, vineyards lay over the land like great blankets.

The Danube Express wove a slow but steady route along the rim of the river valley, the automatic leveling mechanism of the coaches canceling out the sporadic tilt of the track. Darkness was falling fast, and lights twinkled on in villages, tiny chips of light in the darkness.

In the dining coach, one table was occupied and caught my immediate attention. Paolo Conti was there, and his companion was none other than Irena Koslova. She looked charming in a dress of soft green with puffy sleeves. She gave me a smile and Conti disbursed a condescending nod. Concealing my disappointment commendably, I smiled back and took a table farther down the coach. I had planned on talking more with Conti myself, but maybe Irena could do it better.

I ordered a gin and tonic for fortification and devoted my attention to reading the menu. While I was doing so, Helmut Lydecker and Herman Friedlander came in, engrossed in conversation, and sat down at a table together. A magician and a music conductor—not such a strange pair, I supposed, both entertainers though in different spheres.

I was still studying the menu when my drink arrived. Erich Brenner came in, speaking to those at every table in an apparent goodwill gesture.

“Everything going well?” he asked me jovially, and with equal bonhomie I said that it was. He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. He avoided looking conspiratorial and managed to make it appear nothing more than friendly. “The investigation is making progress?” he asked. A tinge of hope was discernible in his tone.

“Yes,” I said, “it is making progress.”

“We will be in Budapest soon,” he said. “We need to be able to convince the authorities there that there is no reason to impede our journey onward.”

“I am sure we will be able to do that,” I said, and hoped he couldn’t see the tongue in my cheek.

“Good man,” he said. He gave me his best company smile and moved on down the coach.

Elisha Tabor came in wearing a tailored suit that looked a little severe. She looked around imperiously and chose a table. She had no sooner sat than Henri Larouge entered, saw her, and made his way over to her table. The two of them had a short conversation. He was looking persuasive, and she was seeming unreceptive. Their voices did not carry and lipreading is a skill that I ought to acquire, but I have not yet done so. Consequently, I was not certain what was happening, but Larouge tightened his lips, said something quickly, and went off to another table. It looked like a brush-off from where I sat.

I devoted myself to the menu. I chose a smoked mackerel pâté to start, to be followed by
Rollmopse.
These brine-pickled herrings are a German specialty, but many neighboring countries have adopted them, and their popularity has spread enough that we eat them in America and England, and the restaurateurs are sufficiently unoriginal as to call them by the same name, “rollmops.”

In France, rollmops are put into a marinade that is based on white wine, but the Germans prefer the herrings much more acidic in taste. They use vinegar instead of the wine and add dill pickles and onions.